


The Many Uses of Chaotic Neutral

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Consent, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Manipulative Stiles, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs something from Peter, and he knows <i>exactly</i> how to get it. Fortunately, Peter quite enjoys Stiles' particular brand of manipulation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Many Uses of Chaotic Neutral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegirlwhoknits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/gifts).



> The lovely bitchinachinashop isn't feeling very well, so I thought I'd write her a quick minific. Nearly five thousand words later, I'd written my very first AO3-worthy-length porn without plot! Apparently the trick for me is to tackle a rare pairing that isn't my OTP. *grins*
> 
> Thank you to the glorious (in alpha order) [FlutterFyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre) (aka [KissofFlame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com)), [i-am-sherlock-ed](http://i-am-sher-lock-ed.tumblr.com/), and [rayvanfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox) (aka [zooeyscigar](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com/)) for quick but thorough beta work, despite the fact that it was a weekday! If it weren't for them, this would still be an insomniac's rambling haze. Thank you <3

One thing Peter truly, deeply enjoyed about his newfound psychopathy was just how much he was able to relax in even the most unlikely of circumstances. It was difficult for him to drum up the passion to be overly dramatic about, well, anything these days — unless there was a direct and substantial impact on him personally, of course. So even if it was Code Red out there for Scott and Derek and their little ragtag pack of misfits, all of Beacon Hills on the edge of destruction à la Buffy style, Peter still could manage to find the time to hit the masseuse. 

“Mr. Hale,” the pretty attendant greeted, giving the white sheet over Peter’s bare skin a gentle tug. “Always nice to have you in here.”

“Always nice to be had,” Peter said with smile. He didn’t actually recognize the brunette, though the way she was looking at him, touching him, meant that he’d probably had her at some point. It wouldn’t surprise him — Peter knew he had one hell of a body, and he never shied from using it to his advantage. Nor did he shy from indulging it. The pathological flirting — well, that he just couldn’t help.

“In all the best, most creative ways?” the girl asked, her red-stained lips widening in a confident smile that was interested and slightly coy, but utterly shallow. It would be a bit of fun, Peter thought. A quick fuck that satisfied his carnal urges but wouldn’t actually relax the knots of tension he’d held in his shoulders and back for far too long now. Was it worth it? Would the woman stick around to give him the massage afterwards? Then her hand was stroking down his neck and shoulder, and Peter let his eyes fall shut, mind suddenly made up.

Before he could offer her anything more than an appreciative exhale, however, the hand was abruptly gone. He waited a few heartbeats, hoping she would return — perhaps with oil slicking her fingertips’ passage along his skin — but there was nothing.

Then the footsteps retreated, and a new person came in, closed the door, and locked it. The scent, the way the person’s body filled up all the space around him, the rapid, uneven heartbeat that was so achingly familiar, filled his senses, and Peter grinned.

“Stiles.”

“Peter.”

“I hope you realize you’re interrupting some very important me-time here,” Peter said with a mock-sigh, letting his eyes flutter open. He gazed up at Stiles through heavy lids and thick eyelashes, grin spreading lazily. “Better be worth it.”

Stiles didn’t even pretend to fail to catch his meaning. He stepped up next to the table, looking down at Peter with calm intent and focus that he seemed capable of holding onto only in the face of a difficult problem that needed solving. 

Peter knew _he_ wasn’t the unsolved problem; Stiles had figured him out long ago. Well, _technically_ , Lydia had figured him out. She’d come to Peter, looking for answers about how to use her magic better, and when he’d made it clear what he expected in return, she had left in an indignant fury. Actually, Peter considered himself lucky that she hadn’t tried to kill him on the spot. He’d deserved it, after all.

Stiles, on the other hand, had no such hangups. He was perfectly willing to give Peter what he wanted if it got Stiles what he wanted. He also wasn’t afraid to kill Peter if Peter ever became more trouble than he was worth.

They were more alike than either of them would care to admit.

The touch, when it came, was neither hesitant nor cautious. It was one of the things Peter liked best about Stiles; when he decided he had the right to something, he laid claim entirely, without ambivalence. Stiles touched Peter like Peter was _his_ , like Peter didn’t have to right to object. Not that Peter wanted to. He didn’t particularly care that no one wanted him around; even the sting of his nephew’s constant rejection had faded by now. But Stiles’ little acts of ownership were a pleasant relief in the wake of that void.

“You’ve probably heard about our little problem,” Stiles said, dragging a fingertip down Peter’s jawline, down his neck, letting it catch on the bump of Peter’s Adam’s apple.

Peter swallowed reflexively. “Not _my_ problem,” Peter insisted.

“I suppose not,” Stiles said, his finger continuing its path downward, over his throat, down his sternum, and across his stomach until it caught the edge of the sheet just below Peter’s navel.

“What do you want?” Peter asked, both pleased that Stiles wanted something from him and annoyed that, in the face of Stiles’ want, Peter lost his ability and desire to use his words as weapons.

“I want to know how to slip salt and iron past a witch’s protective circle,” Stiles said. “And if there’s anyone who knows how to slip past the best defenses to carve out a little niche for something poisonous, it would be you.” He slid his finger under the sheet a bare inch and swiped it back and forth over the thin trail of hair there.

Peter fought not to arch into Stiles’ touch. It was ridiculous how easily this kid could get him going. “Is that what I am?” Peter asked, hating the breathy hiss of his voice. “Poisonous?”

“Poisonous, adjective. Causing or capable of causing death or illness if taken into the body.”

This time, there was no stopping the full-body shudder that racked through him at Stiles’ words. “Fair enough,” he managed.

“The fact that you find that hot only proves my point, you know.”

“I think you have to take me into your body first,” Peter said, smirking. 

Stiles stood silently over Peter, eyes not quite narrowed as he spread his palm flat over Peter’s abdomen. Peter didn’t rush him, didn’t urge him on, knowing from experience that it would earn him nothing but a frustrated, flustered Stiles. The kid had to be in control, had to be given time to process. Peter took a deep breath through his nose as he waited, shamelessly indulging. Worn cotton and the tickly smell of perfumed detergent. Old-fashioned bar soap. Sweat. Hair gel. And something else, teasing Peter’s nose, hidden under the chemical wash of men’s cologne. 

His eyes widened in disbelief and Stiles’ contemplative frown turned into a smirk. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice.”

Peter’s teeth sharpened as he sat up abruptly, not willing to wait anymore. The tang of lubricant and latex was too much of a temptation, and he was ripping at the fastener of Stiles’ jeans before his conscious brain gave his body permission.

Stiles yanked off his plaid overshirt and kicked off his shoes while Peter struggled to focus enough on the task at hand to get Stiles’ jeans off. He ended up ripping off the button, shoving the zipper down with absolutely no grace. Then he gave a shove, and the jeans and boxers fell to the ground all at once.

That seemed to be as far as Stiles was willing to let Peter take it, however. He gave a hard shove, and Peter let himself collapse back against the table. He focused on his breathing, calming himself down enough to not just take, as Stiles climbed onto the table. He straddled Peter’s hips, kneeling just enough to keep from making contact.

Peter groaned and thrust up, but the soft slide of the sheet was the only sensation he was rewarded with as Stiles moved in time and away from Peter.

“Stiles…” Peter hissed through still-canine teeth. “You shouldn’t tease. You know firsthand just how much patience I _don’t_ have.”

“And I know that you’re smart, Peter. Smart enough to know that if you hurt me, _really_ hurt me, Derek and Scott will kill you. Smart enough to know that if you force me before I’m ready, all of this—” Stiles leaned down to lick a hot, wet line up Peter’s jaw to his ear — “will end.”

“You’re right,” Peter conceded with a shiver. He reached down to grip Stiles’ hips, not being particularly careful to avoid scratching the soft flesh with his sharp claws. The sudden spike of arousal from Stiles told him all he needed to know about how welcome the little pains were.

“Better get rid of those,” Stiles warned, however, head still bent low so that he was whispering in Peter’s ear. “If you want to see what I did for you.”

“Fuck,” Peter huffed willing the shift back under his control. Stiles wasn’t helping, licking and biting at the soft, sharp tip of his ear, stopping only to occasionally flick his tongue in the ear canal. “ _Fuck_.”

“You can do it,” Stiles encouraged. 

Peter bit back a retort and focused his energy on shifting back, doing his level best to ignore what Stiles was doing to him, even when Stiles ducked and flicked his tongue over Peter’s sharp teeth. Peter knew that Stiles was testing himself as much as Peter, and Peter wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an excuse to leave and never come back.

The _instant_ his hands were normal again, Peter had them on Stiles’ ass. Stiles hissed out a breath as Peter explored, feeling the wet edges of Stiles’ hole where it was stretched around the base of the plug. 

 _What I did for you_ , Stiles had said, though Peter didn’t quite believe it. There could be any number of reasons for Stiles to stretch himself out like this, to ready himself in advance for Peter, and the likeliest ones weren’t for Peter’s benefit. Stiles was here for a reason, not for fun, and Peter reminded himself that he needed to hold the fact of that driving motivation like a firefly in his hand. Stiles probably wanted to skip the foreplay in order to make this as quick and efficient as possible so he could get back to the gritty business of saving Beacon Hills.

“Slipping salt past the protection ring is easy,” Peter said, tapping the base of the plug hard, just to see Stiles shudder. “Certain allowances have to be made for sodium, anyway, giving how incredibly present it is in everything — from the composition of human bodies to the traces of your soap.”

With careful movements, Stiles pulled up and leaned back to stare down at Peter. “Well?” he demanded. “How do I do it?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, and Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. Then he crouched over Peter, resting on his knees and the palms of his hands, which were braced against Peter’s chest. He bent his head to press gentle kisses to Peter’s collarbone before biting down, _hard_.

It was only the fear of interruption that kept Peter’s roar trapped in his chest; no matter what Stiles had bribed the management with, they probably wouldn’t take too kindly to animalistic sounds of passion coming from one of their parlor rooms. His hands clenched hard on Stiles’ ass and he bucked, nearly throwing Stiles off him.

Stiles, the bastard, _laughed_ , the vibration of it tickling Peter where teeth met bone. Stiles pressed his teeth just a little tighter, enough to break the skin where his sharp incisors sank into Peter’s flesh, before he pulled off.

This was new from his former life, this enjoyment of pain during sex. As much as people joked that Peter was a zombie, there were some days that he felt it. Not in the flesh, never in the flesh, but in the disconnect of mind from body. Carnal pleasure itself was fantastic, if fleeting. But when the act of sex was occasionally sharpened with purposeful hurt, it reminded Peter that he was, in fact, alive. 

And no one knew how to remind Peter of that better than Stiles.

Now Stiles’ teeth were over Peter’s nipples, biting and sucking mercilessly. Peter felt his cock swell with pleasure and the rush of endorphins from Stiles ministrations, and he let himself imagine what it might be like to have Stiles in his bed. Normal bondage wouldn’t work, Peter thought as he reached up to grasp the edge of the table behind his head. But Stiles was clever; he could probably think of some way to keep Peter trapped with something other than electricity — something that wouldn’t affect Peter’s ability to perform. With wrists and ankles bound, would Stiles take more time with him? Would he use nipple clamps instead of teeth? Would he tease Peter to the edge of his already-tenuous grasp on sanity so he could see the _real_ man under the veneer of confidence and self-preservation?

When Stiles’ hot breath and wet mouth finally landed over Peter’s abs, he only teased for moments before he pulled off. He took the edge of the sheet in his mouth, and, baring his teeth, looked up expectantly at Peter.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Peter ground out, table creaking as he gripped it nearly hard enough to break it. “Goddamn, Stiles, you fucking beautiful, perfect tease.” He swallowed and let his head fall back with a hard thunk, closing his eyes. He desperately chased down the memory of the last time he’d encountered a witch, and what he’d learned during his research on how to defeat her. In the end he’d simply ended up tearing her apart, but that wasn’t what Stiles was after. “There’s a sigil,” he forced out. “Get a milk jug. Fill it halfway with salt. Fill the rest with water. Mark it with the sigil. The protection circle will be fooled into thinking it’s an animal, and the concentration will be strong enough to achieve whatever task you need the salt for.”

Stiles hummed in approval, and Peter opened his eyes and lifted his head quickly enough to see Stiles tug the sheet away from Peter’s now aching erection, then drop it. “Very good, Peter,” he praised. He climbed off the table, and Peter growled in warning. Stiles ignored him, however, going for his jeans. It was amusing, watching him. He still had on his plain, white t-shirt and calf-high white socks, and the red base of the plug and the jut of Stiles’ own hard cock were a sharp, almost amusing contrast. 

“Draw it,” Stiles demanded, coming back with his phone, open to a whiteboard app.

“You think I have it memorized?” Peter asked, knowing Stiles would call him on it, but reaching for the excuse of a repeat visit anyway.

“Yes,” Stiles answered, teeth flashing as he smiled sharply. “Draw it, Peter,” he demanded.

Something inside Peter thrilled at the order, even as he merely sighed and took the phone. He was tempted to draw it just the _tiniest_ bit wrong so Stiles would have to come back, but he knew better. Stiles would spot the manipulation a mile away and would call him on it. There would be no reward for fixing the sigil, and possibly serious detriment in Stiles not trusting him to deliver on what was asked for. That could damage the long-term prospects of this, well, _exchange_ , and Peter knew better than to shoot himself in the foot.

It took only moments before Peter handed it over. “I’m ninety percent certain that’s accurate, but it’s not my best work. Touchscreens and faulty memory and all that. Might want to run it through a Google image search just to be certain.”

“I will,” Stiles replied evenly as he tucked the phone back in his pocket. Then he let the jeans fall back to the ground and climbed back over Peter’s hips. “If you want to touch, do it now. Because when I’m ready to finish, your hands are going to go back to hanging onto the table.”

Peter’s eyes flashed as a tiny part of him cried out in indignation. _Peter_ was the alpha here. _He_ was the one with the power, the magic, the knowledge. He wanted to sit up so fast that Stiles would be thrown to the ground, then tackle him before he regained his footing. He’d fuck him hard and fast, maybe not even taking the plug out first, just to show Stiles where the hell he belonged in the order of things.

Instead, he merely leaned up in a half-curl, abs supporting him easily, as he reached for Stiles’ shirt. Stiles may not be the one with the the magic, the knowledge, or the title, Peter acknowledged, but he was the one with the power. He was clever and manipulative, and had enough failsafes in place to keep Peter from indulging. And, all of that aside, Peter _wanted_ Stiles to hold him down, to make him comply. It was a craving he didn’t have to justify, because Stiles was here. Now. Doing without asking.

The skin under the t-shirt was marked with cuts and slashes and bruises, and Peter understood better now what had driven Stiles to finally come to him — how desperately he must have wanted to destroy the the witch. She’d obviously taken the fight to him, or tried to attack someone he cared about. Stiles wouldn’t have any choice but to fight back with every weapon at his disposal — which included Peter.

But no matter what Stiles liked giving to Peter, he didn’t like to receive it in return. He didn’t like pain, but he didn’t like gentleness either, which he’d said spoke to false intimacy. Peter understood, so he didn’t bother doing more than dragging his hands lightly down Stiles’ back. Then he gripped his ass again and tapped the plug, looking up at Stiles for permission.

Much to his surprise, Stiles nodded. Peter thought about asking him to turn around and bend over, but that would shift their dynamic too much, and he knew Stiles would refuse. So he grasped the base of the plug and gave it an experimental tug and twist, trying to see if he could judge the size of it. Stiles swore quietly, body sagging for a moment before he straightened again and buried his hands his Peter’s hair. He forced Peter’s head back so he could meet his eyes. Peter was helpless to look away.

“It’s big,” Stiles said, his even voice a sharp contrast to the rapid stuttering of his heartbeat. “But it’s designed to do what you’re thinking about doing right now.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Peter breathed out, eyes fluttering closed for a minute as he tried to imagine Stiles shopping for this, thinking about what Peter would want from a toy. If it were large enough to prepare him for Peter’s cock. If it were shaped for Peter to fuck him with it. If it was what _Peter_ would want.

At first, he didn’t do more than twist the toy and give it short little pushes and pulls, but judging by Stiles’ breathy sighs, shudders, and groans, it was enough. He also refused to stop staring into Peter’s eyes. It was incredibly arousing, almost as much as the sounds Stiles was making were, even if he knew that it was Stiles’ way of not getting lost in the pleasure. Of not forgetting why he was here.

After a few minutes, when Peter was sure he wouldn’t ruin this by hurting Stiles, he started fucking him much more vigorously with the plug. He’d pull it out a few inches only to plunge it back in, hard, following it up with a twist. Stiles hissed and cursed and writhed over the toy and Peter’s hand, and his eyes would flutter closed for a few moments before they would fly open again. His whole body jerked with the force of Peter’s thrusts until he seemed to lose the ability to hold himself up. First his chest pressed heavily against Peter’s, and he shifted just enough so that their nipples were brushing together. Then, finally, Stiles’ head dropped onto Peter’s shoulder.

It was only through sheer force of will that Peter managed to not drop the plug and fall back in shock. Stiles _never_ did this — he never gave in to the desires of his body, allowing it to show weakness to Peter. Maybe it was the aftermath of the fight with the witch, or maybe it was how excruciatingly _good_ it felt. Either way, Peter was going to indulge in his freedom of touch until Stiles revoked it. He wrapped his free hand around Stiles’ shoulders and pulled him close until they were flush from cocks to chest. Stiles turned his head where it rested on Peter’s collarbone and started nuzzling at his neck.

“Fuck _yes_ , Peter,” Stiles breathed out, his body still rhythmically sliding up and down Peter’s front with the force of Peter’s hand. “That’s fucking perfect, just like that. Make me feel it, Peter, Jesus _Christ_.”

Whether it was the words, or the rare feeling of Stiles’ body against his, or the act of Stiles nuzzling Peter’s neck, he didn’t know, but Peter couldn’t stop his orgasm from crashing over him in a shocking wave of pure, intense pleasure. Everything disappeared but the feeling of Stiles’ hard cock on his, Stiles’ mouth at his pulse point, Stiles’ hands in his hair. Forgetting to be quiet, he cried out as the waves of heat continued to roll through him until his cock finally stopped twitching.

“Holy shit,” he cursed as he fell back onto the table. “How in the _hell_ did you do that, making me come without touching me?”

“You have your magic, I have mine,” Stiles said, grinning down at Peter. “But don’t think you’re getting out of it that easily.”

“You think I’m going to pay for the pleasure of sucking your cock for the information _you_ want?” Peter asked incredulously. 

“You only gave me half of the information you promised me,” Stiles said, swatting at Peter’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t promise anything,” Peter pointed out.

“Implied contract? Is that what this is?” Stiles asked, a mischievous light sparking in his eyes. “One piece of information for one orgasm?”

“Stiles…” Peter tried to warn, but it was too late. Stiles had already slid down to crouch over Peter’s legs, his hard cock brushing against Peter’s calf. Then he had Peter in his mouth, sucking the come off his balls, his stomach, and the head of his soft penis. Peter shouted at the painful sensation, trying to pull away, but Stiles was having none of it. He redirected Peter’s hands to his hair, then held Peter’s hips down.

It was the most _exquisite_ torture, Peter’s oversensitivity battling for dominance over his werewolf-short refractory period. He felt tears leaking from his eyes as Stiles suckled mercilessly at his cock, and no matter how much he tightened his grip on Stiles’ short hair, Stiles refused to pull off.

It didn’t take long for the pain to lose it’s lead over pleasure, and Peter sobbed out a relieved breath, his body so fucking confused that it was a shaking wreck. When Peter was back to full hardness, aching with the need for release, Stiles pulled off again.

“No, don’t stop,” Peter begged, releasing Stiles’ hair just to be certain he wouldn’t rip any of it out in an effort to redirect him. “Please, Stiles, fucking Christ, _please_!”

“Iron,” Stiles demanded.

Peter lifted his head, staring at Stiles in shock. Then Stiles braced a palm against Peter’s chest, held his breath, bent forward, and pulled the plug free of his body with an obscene wet sound. Peter groaned, lamenting whatever gods put him in the same city as this goddamn genius of a kid, but didn’t thrust his hips up. Stiles positioned himself over Peter, teasing the leaking head of Peter’s cock with his wet, open hole.

“Iron,” he demanded again as Peter whimpered.

“A human can’t do it,” Peter practically shouted. “Only a supernatural creature, and only one that doesn’t belong to a pack or coven or group of any kind, can bring a witch iron, and only then if they’re wearing it.”

Stiles hummed in a voice that wasn’t entirely surprised, but before Peter had time to wonder what that meant, Stiles sank onto Peter and his focus was lost.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Stiles asked quietly, starting to ride Peter slowly.

“Yes,” Peter practically sobbed. He needed Stiles to move faster, push harder than this current slow, lazy pace. “There is a charm — _fucking hell, Stiles_ — and the supernatural has to have practically no intent. Oh my god. Oh _god._ He can’t have good intent, or — fuck, fuck! — evil intent either. He merely has to want to see her.”

“Very good, Peter,” Stiles said approvingly. He grinned down at where Peter was gaping up at him. Peter knew that something important had happened, but he was too distracted by the prospect of two orgasms in less than an hour to properly care. 

“Can I come?” Peter begged. He reached for Stiles, hoping that, for once, Stiles would let him have this, but Stiles slapped his hand away.

“Yes, Peter, you’ve done such a good job,” Stiles soothed, riding him faster and harder. “Come. Come _now_!”

The second orgasm was even more intense than the first, and for an alarming moment it felt the same way being electrocuted felt — his muscles seizing involuntarily as shudders and sparks ran through his body. Then the ecstasy took over, and by the time Peter resurfaced, Stiles had already pulled off him and was jerking himself off over Peter’s face. Peter only had time to blink and open his mouth before Stiles came, sticky white threads of come falling over Peter’s eyes and mouth and nose until there was nothing flooding his senses but Stiles. There was _nothing_ but Stiles, and pleasure, and Peter didn’t want it to end.

It had to, though. Of course it had to. Too soon, Stiles had pulled away and clambered less than gracefully off the table. He pulled a small ziploc baggie of wet wipes out of a jean pocket, tossed a handful to Peter, then started cleaning himself off. 

“You want me,” Peter said after a moment of silence, the realization crashing into him suddenly as he finished wiping off his face. “That’s what all this was about. You didn’t know about the salt, but you knew about the iron. And now you want me to do it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted easily. “Everything else could have been figured out, except for the chaotic neutral part.”

“Chaotic neutral?”

“You,” Stiles said, grinning. He pulled his jeans and boxers up, hopping to get into them. He zipped, but gave Peter a reproachful look when he fingered the torn fabric where the button belonged. 

“I’m not doing it.” Peter rolled upright, then swung his legs around to hop off the table. 

“Yes, you are,” Stiles insisted as he pulled his shoes back on.

Peter’s gaze landed on the plug still on the table, black and hard and shiny. “Well, maybe I could be persuaded.”

Stiles’ gaze followed Peter’s, and his eyes widened. “Derek can’t smell you on me, Peter,” he reminded him. “He can’t. He’d kill you, or worse, look at me like I’ve betrayed him or something.”

Peter nodded, but the chance of being able to trap some of himself in Stiles, even just for a little while was too tempting to pass up. “I’ll go tonight. Now. I’ll kill her, and none of you will have to worry about it again.”

Stiles’ look was thoughtful, but Peter already knew he’d won him over. “Fine, but this is what’s going to happen. I’ll wear it. I’ll go back to your apartment and wait there for you. You’ll kill her with salt and iron, not your claws, and leave the body for Derek to find. Then leave. I’m only waiting until eleven tonight, Peter. We’ll both wash ourselves thoroughly so that by the time Derek calls us for help, he won’t smell anything.” He looked sternly at Peter. “Not a goddamn thing, or this ends.”

The thought of Stiles waiting for him, in his bed, naked, the plug in his ass trapping Peter’s come inside him, had Peter’s cock twitching again. Stiles pretended not to notice, waiting for Peter’s answer.

“Fine,” he said easily, with a shrug. He picked up the plug, wiped it off with one of the sanitizers, then held it up. “Shall we?”

Stiles didn’t hesitate — another one of the things Peter really appreciated about him. Once his mind was made, Stiles didn’t waste time. He walked over the table, pulled his pants and boxers to his thighs, and bent over.

It was almost impossible for Peter not to give in to temptation and shove himself back inside, but the promise of later kept him in check. He shoved the toy in, none too gently, cupping himself as Stiles groaned. The plug sank in with hardly any resistance, and Peter couldn’t resist shoving his cock against it a few times before pulling back.

“You know,” Peter mused as Stiles straightened. “Some day, you and my nephew are going to get your acts together and that will be the end of it for me.” He held out Stiles’ flannel, pleased and amused when Stiles let Peter pull it onto to him. “What will you do then?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. See you tonight, Peter.”

Nothing but darkness peered through the crack of the door as Stiles left, and Peter was pleased that he wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone about their long co-opting of the massage room. He wondered again what Stiles had bribed them with as he starting pulling on his clothes. Stiles was a master manipulator now, so it would have been perfect. Peter had taught him well — which he’d have to tell Stiles, later. Just to see him twitch with outrage.

But for now, his lover wanted him to go kill a witch. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic previews, eye candy, prompt fills, and gpoy galore [on my Tumblr](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/).


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